


Bodies and Bliss

by AvianInk



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Brucenat - Freeform, F/M, Fluff and Smut, My First Smut, POV Natasha Romanov, Post-Canon, Romance, Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 10:31:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17744252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvianInk/pseuds/AvianInk
Summary: Natasha and Bruce discover new euphoria in known places during their first time together.





	Bodies and Bliss

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone for the love you've shown "Closed Doors!" I hope you like this, too. Less angst, more steam.
> 
> (Also this is the first time I've ever, ever written something like this so, more than ever, comments and critique are appreciated)
> 
> Much love ;)

“Bruce.”

His is the only name she’ll whisper. It’s the only way she can say his name when they’re like this—shirts gone, pants wrinkled from friction, lips like fingers caressing bare skin. One perk to his trepidation is the incredible attention to her signals—the moans that slip out when he lavishes what clothes always cover, the slight lurches toward his touch when he wanders over her breasts. With him is the only time she’s experienced a want so strong that is disguises as need.

In this moment, she needs her bra off, needs her clothes completely shed, and she never knew she could need that. His name drips out from pleasure, but also assurance. Her hands slip up his back’s slide, scrunch the back of his scalp—on the front, she places a kiss—and then those hands trace his sides down.

When she reaches his hips, the delicious pressure on her collarbone alleviates, fabric stops brushing her nipples. Into the stillness, he murmurs back. “Natasha…”

She brings her palms back up, so, for a moment, she may hold the face of this caring, careful man she loves. “You won’t hurt me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do—I know you. I know what you’re capable of, and I’m saying you won’t hurt me.” She emits to his concerned eyes, channels it through her fingertips as she strokes his jawline. Then, on a sober note, she adds, “Unless you don’t want to do this now.”

Urgency chases away some of his worry lines. “No, no—I-I want to. It’s just—”

Gratification restores the grin that forms. “I want to, too.” Still she keeps her hands on his head, tries to invent a way to tell him of her love through roaming fingertips. “You won’t hurt me. I promise.” A sudden notion spurs her into a full body shift. “Here,” she says, guiding him under her instead of vice versa.

He settles down, completely flat, and she hovers atop him, propped on an elbow. Between two of his legs, she rests one of hers.

“Better?” She asks— _ really  _ asks.

When he wraps an arm around her back, she takes the cue to return to the clasps and zipper at his waist. With a few pulls and tugs, the band comes undone and, with perhaps too much zeal, they collaborate to get the obstructing piece off as quickly as they can. Before she can assess the shape protruding from his boxers, they turn their efforts to her jeans. The denim peeling off her skin leaves a tingling tremor in its wake.

She settles back atop him, takes note of the stiffness against her thigh, and meets his parted mouth with hers. The hint of a quake beneath her skin fades, though the tingling doesn’t. It shimmers over her, makes her surreal. Somehow, this is her unfathomable reality. This, which so many before told her she would never have. This would never be an option for her, yet she is here. They are here, with his fingers stroking across her shoulders, down her spine, and every ridge and tenderness of him pressed against her.

Loathe as she is to retreat from the warm mist between their lips, her bra annoys her still, what with its scratching reminder of its presence. As she sits up to remove the garment, hands slip to her pelvis, where the top of her underwear sits. With another piece of clothing gone, she thinks he’ll contribute to her next move—shifting her knees on either side of his legs—or he’ll skip to removing the last of their clothes. Neither thought is correct.

Instead, his fingers slide down to where she’s damp in a way only him and her own ministrations cam summon. He looks to her for permission, which he has. Before he can ask, she has a question of her own. “What are you up to?”

A ruby glow from his cheeks and forehead responds. “Um…” One of his shy grins slips on. “I wanna...make sure I don’t hurt you.”

To accept and thank him, she folds herself over, links her open mouth to his, lets her tongue hint at his lip. His hand below slips over her cotton cover and gives a preemptive press to her clit’s hood. Her tongue retreats into a soundless gasp, and he asks, “Is this okay?”

Her first desire is for more, then to tease him. Torn between the two, a hum of, “Mmhm,” comes out.

Two fingers push aside the fabric and nudge into her, into the damp. They are far from unacquainted with her innerworkings and quickly find her clit, circle it once. A jolt through her belly bucks her hips forward.

“Hold on…” He murmurs. It’s the last thing she wants to do. She wants him on her and everywhere. The pause is to shift them again, though—guiding her onto her side so he has access to better angles and her breasts. His fingers return to her crux while his mouth traces a path to her right nipple. A delicious tightness tugs her chest, within her stomach and lower, and it builds.

Before he builds a rhythm, his hands push her underwear down and away, leaving her open for him. Coaxing him back, she whispers, “Bruce.”

It doesn’t take more for him to oblige. A kiss lands on her breast. Fingers swirl around her sensitive spot with interjections of deliberate strokes. What will eventually become an earthquake quivers in her abdomen. She rediscovers the pleasure so many told her she should never know.

Pressure circles her clit then skates further down and back up again, slicking wet in its wake. Closer to her heart, his mouth encircles her in heat. His tongue flicks what buds for him, and he releases with a light scrape of teeth that has her arching into him.

The pace shifts from slow and satisfactory to fervid and mind-numbing in a matter of minutes. Her breathing rate is more gasps, moans, exhales of his name and encouragement than anything regular. Ripples that have her tingling turn to waves, then a deluge. She rises with the pleasure, ascends with it from her core to her throat, then he tips her into the avalanche of descent.

In the aftermath of him bringing her to orgasm with his fingers, his mouth alone, she’s wondered if the human body could ever grow accustomed to this. If she could ever grow accustomed to this — the coiling in her pelvis, the shudders that somehow simultaneously start and end where his fingers love, the craving for more hours in a day so she can have more of him. Will he ever fail to make her so slick; will there come a day when she doesn’t respond this way any longer?

When they’re in the midst, the throes of it—those times when it’s his mouth showing her what making love is, when he’s all over and inside her and her tongue is a waterfall of his name—she knows this will never stop. They chase away that programmed paranoia with every kiss, every release, all the semi-conscious seconds that follow, where they’re molded together in a different way and drifting toward repose.

He’s brought her over this edge so many times before, and never had all of himself within her. He’s coaxing her core yet again and still hasn’t been inside like she wants.

“Bruce—please.” Hopefully that enough to get her message across, because her brain is malfunctioning, tripping over itself in the rush toward a climax, and her mouth doesn’t want to work properly.

A peck lands in the vacancy between her breasts. Another is placed over her heart. A finger migrates from her clit and slides through the wet. It’s exactly what she wants and, yet, not. Tonight, there will be greed. There will be more.

First, though, his hand pumps a sole digit into her. It beckons a stronger earthquake.

He makes it incredibly hard to sit up when the trembles build to tremors. “That’s…”  _ That’s not what I meant.  _ The rest is lost to her panting. Her damn hands betray the mission here; they dig into his hair and anchor there as he pumps, curls a little to tease her G-spot. She cants her hips, seeking more, seeking what’s beneath the very last of the fabric beneath them.

His mouth seals around a nipple and flicks relentlessly. The fluttering zaps a tingling cascade downward, where she simultaneously uncoils, widens for him, yet climbs in pleasure. His finger pulls out. When it returns, he slips in two digits.

“Bruce, please—”

“Is this okay?” He releases her breast to say that, stalls his rhythm. She could punch him for it.

She shoots a look down at him and finds forgiveness. The care beaming at her is unequivocal but, on top of that, there’s the enticing bend in his arm that leads to her core.

Her hands relinquish his hair, exchanging an anchoring grip for a caress. She tells him, “Either keep going or fuck me.”

His eyes widen. If anything, that only stalls him longer. He gapes into her breast.

“I...I—”

“I’m sure.” She reaffirms, clinging to the pleasure clench in her crux.

Mutual desire glows back at her. The fingers inside curl, electrify her back to full feeling. He presses his lips in the center of her chest. He slides his tongue to a pink bud and, in tandem, his thumb swipes her clit. Both start circling. His thumb pauses for the pulsing of the fingers inside her.

Euphoria drips down her, weeps into her core. She can feel herself leaking; she is riding an incredible build.

An, “uh,” pops out. Her toes curl, knees stretch then bend, trying to keep the pleasure in. She wants it all, wants him to keep going, keep pushing, swiping, licking.

Usually, she’d ask for a faster pace, but she wants to be sure of a second act to this. So she exhales, “Ah...keep—”

Knowing without her saying, he delivers. In one push, his fingers curl into her G-spot. His thumb rotates light circles around her clit. He launches himself up to her neck, latches onto her pulse point, scrapes with teeth, then sucks. And she comes undone. She rushes into an unravelling, panting the faintest, “Oh...oh…”

At the end of it, where her limbs tremble, he’s there, kissing her neck, slipping out of her, like he usually does after she comes.

They’re not done.

“Lay down.” She pants. Her palms guide his shoulders so he’s on his back.

Slick behind her knees, she settles atop him once more and brings his mouth up to hers. She clings to his jaw and kisses him as strength returns to her muscles. Every swirl of her tongue and slide of lips, he gives right back with hands, damp with her wet, stroking her back, roaming to her legs.

Between kisses, in a breath she sips as his mouth chases hers, she murmurs, “Your underwear.”

This time, he doesn’t ask if she’s sure, if she wants to stop, if this is anything other than what she wants. He plants his feet and lifts his hips a smidge, exiles the last of the fabric from their bodies and their bed.

She discovers the gentle push of his length against her and relishes in it. The lonely wetness that remains from her orgasm urges her to seek friction against him, so she does. Her hips reposition and her crotch slips over his.

They nearly clash teeth in the rush to each other’s mouths. She smiles into him, though only for a flash as she repeats the motion with her hips, gasping into their kiss. He captures her breath and brings his hand to hold her cheek.

Before pausing over him again, or even venturing to take him in, she pauses. Her lips brush over his when she asks, “How are you doing?”

He nods, tongue too saturated with want to form anything coherent. She loves making him so blissfully wordless.

She pecks his mouth then turns her attention to their lower halves. As muscles and flesh shift, glide, and part, as they bring her opening to the tip of him, he overcomes the speechlessness. “Let me know if I’m hurting you.”

For his depthless care, for all he cherishes her, she deposits another kiss on the ridge of his jaw. And she begins to take him in. She brings them into a new sense of being together.

There’s no pain, though a stretching that starts as uncomfortable. In the context of everything else she’s ever experienced, though, this is far from excruciating. Quite the opposite. This isn’t like everything else. This isn’t breaking, it’s not taking—it’s a union and it’s bliss. It’s her having what was supposed to be forbidden to her.

To let herself adjust, she simply remains still on him. For a few moments, she stays, kissing assurance into his lips, down his throat, and back up again. He readily returns the gestures. He tries so hard not to hurt her. Him harming her is feasible yet impossible at the same time.

Soon, after the damp and her body has done its work, she’s craving more. She’s never done this (though they’ve come close), but she knows what motions she wants, and she heeds that desire.

The push and pull of her hips starts slow, with her folded over him, an arm on one side of his head with the other hand in his hair. She fills every inch and pore she can with him. He helps, palms rushing over her back, palms sliding and squeezing between them to grab her breasts and tug, palms cupping her rear as it flexes with her movements. Then he thrusts up into her in sync with her rhythm.

Though she’s already quivering from the feeling of fullness, she moves faster. Her fingers unhook from his curls and clutch the sheets instead. This opens a space for his hands to capture, play with her nipples, which gets a moan and another uptick in pace. The thumping of him inside her, of her hips and thighs colliding with his, replaces her heartbeat. Her chest is full of their rhythm. Pleasure quakes in her thighs. There’s an abundance of delicious, writhing feeling in her abdomen and core.

Somewhere between the streaks of bliss and thrum, there’s his trembling. His breaths hitch like hers, and his fingers can’t find a steadiness in their ministrations. He matches her push for push, thrust for thrust, and climbs with her.

The leftover sensitivity from her orgasm before has her coming first. He thrusts into her, she fills herself with him, and their drumbeat dissolves into sparks and thunder. Electricity shimmers over her, crackles over her skin, pops and sizzles in her core, yet a jolt of lightning keeps her pounding onto him. She reaches her peak but does not descend without him. Thighs shaking through it all, she gyrates through her climax and brings him with her.

His orgasm inside her is another unknown but welcome sensation. His hips stall, start again with a burst, make staccato pushes up into her dampness as his length pulses within her. He moans and she consumes it with a tongue-filled kiss, coupled with an unintentional little whimper.

“Are…” He pants through their joined shaking. “Are you okay?”

“Bruce,” she exhales, her forehead resting against his. “I’m more than okay.”

He smiles up at her, and she knows he’s found something beloved too.


End file.
